


Dream Of Red

by HaughtPocket



Series: Unorthodox Soulmates [4]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Dreams, F/F, Searching, it's wayhaught and I'm a sucker for them so obviously happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 20:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12825969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaughtPocket/pseuds/HaughtPocket
Summary: She wakes with a gasp and sweat across her brow.Red.The dream ofred.Waverly Earp groans into her hands, frustrated and desperately pulling for some memory from the dream to help her fill in a gap.A gap that could help them find their place.





	Dream Of Red

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I have NO idea where this came from. It just happened.
> 
> THANK YOU to Smurf for the beta. THANK YOU Smurf and Half for your kind words. You're wonderful.

 

 

 

She wakes with a gasp and sweat across her brow.

 

_Red._

 

The dream of _red_.

 

But she looks around, and it’s just _dark_. Small accommodations by way of a long-deserted home. Sister sleeping, on her belly, sprawled across a table bench, hand dropped to the floor, but still clutching a near empty bottle of whiskey.

 

Waverly Earp groans into her hands, frustrated and desperately pulling for some memory from the dream to help her fill in a gap.

 

A gap that could help them find their place.

 

“Mmmm … _OohFuck...”_

 

Wynonna Earp wakes gradually, and then with a start, as she rolls off the bench, onto the floor, mumbling expletives while rubbing her forehead.

 

Waverly scrunches her face before she kicks off the blanket and stands from her makeshift bed on the ground. She pulls her loose riding breaches over bare legs and reaches for her satchel.

 

Pulling an old, wrinkled map forth, she lays it flat on the table.

 

Hundreds of little x’s mark the paper.

 

Wynonna has pulled herself up to the bench again. Picking up a teacup, examining it, and finding it suitable, she pours what’s left of the whiskey into it.

 

“Where to, boss?” Wynonna’s voice is gravelly from sleep, and she brings the teacup to her lips, pinky outstretched as if she were taking high tea.

 

Waverly exhales and tucks her Ranchero atop her head. “North,” she looks to Wynonna. “Any dreams?”

 

Wynonna twists her face. “It’s like it’s just out of reach. It’s all foggy, and I can’t see through it.”

 

Waverly sighs. Not much to go on. But, go they must.

  
  


\---

  


It’s a _person_.

 

She can’t recall the moment she realized. But Waverly remembers _hands_.

 

Hands so soft they only belonged in that dream, not in any real world.

 

Hands trailed down her neck. Lips following. They drew patterns across her taut abdomen as heat rose and surged and _enveloped_.

 

They dove deep inside of her, and _red_ hair leaned against her heaving chest as she _fell_ , over and over and _over._

 

 _Red_.

 

It’s a person.

  
  


\---

  
  


_Red_ hair whips across a pale forehead, knit tight in concentration. One suspender drops down from her shoulder over a lace-up tunic shirt. Her fading grey trousers hang just a little bit loose. Her deep, soft brown eyes gaze over the horizon.

 

Still nothing.

 

“Hey! What are you looking at?” Big blue eyes stare from down below.

 

Little one.

 

She’s so little and curious and determined to learn every single thing available to her.

 

“Not sure yet,” she tells the truth. All she knows is the feeling deep in her bones that something isn’t right. The feeling that tells her _this isn’t your life_.

 

It whispers in dreams and blows in the wind and gnaws at her heart.

 

 _This isn’t our life_ . _There’s more._

  
  


\---

  
  


“Still can’t figure out what it is.”

 

Wynonna is laying in the dirt, boots propped up on a boulder, old, worn Maybin hat covering the majority of her face. Her fingers drum nervously over her stomach.

 

Waverly peeks out from the warmth of her duster and watches. Waits.

 

“You said yours is a person, right?”

 

Wynonna takes her hat in a hand and turns her head to see Waverly, who nods in reply.

 

“Yeah.” Waverly has to duck her head to hide the blush that comes with the memory of _how_ she figured out it was a person. “Unless it’s trying to trick me. Lead me a different way. I don’t know if it can do that, though.”

 

“ _You_ ? Not know something?” Wynonna snorts. “ _That’ll_ be the day.”

 

A silence descends, and Waverly doesn’t respond.

 

Wynonna turns to Waverly and there’s something in her eyes, a need or a hope that Waverly hasn’t seen before.

 

Waverly had started to think Wynonna would just be content to wander; saddle up and ride nowhere in particular.

 

But now she watches her, and there’s something missing. The look in Wynonna’s eyes, the wild, untamed desire to roam free and do as she pleases is fading.

 

It’s been replaced with heartache.

  
  


\---

  
  
  


Hazel eyes.

 

She has a dream. Just one, barely at that.

 

She’s never had one, always waited, figured she’d be found. She’s heard that happens to some folk.

 

Little one stalks across the yard in bare feet and bloomers, tossing seed to chickens.

 

“ _Heeere_ chick-chick-chick-chick-chick!”

 

She beams at the small voice.

 

That beautiful face. Long, dark hair. She doesn’t belong to her, but she _loves_ her.

 

Their lives were uprooted, and nothing was as it should be, that much was certain. No one knew how, or why.

 

They just had to find their way _back_.

  
  


\---

  
  


Two weeks.

 

It’s been two weeks since Waverly had _that_ dream.

 

The one that nearly broke her. Her self-control, restraint, her patience in their search.

 

She woke up in a hot sweat, unsatiated, but with one more clue.

 

Her person - _Red_ \- she’d been calling them, is a _woman_.

 

This time, the head of red hair looked up from her chest, and brown eyes pierced her soul. A wicked grin with _dimples_ peered up before descending, lower and lower.

 

She recalled a feeling - a bare chest against Waverly’s body. It was unmistakable.

 

She lies awake in her makeshift bed with the dream still heavy on her mind and in her limbs. She tries to resist, as long as she can. But it’s _consuming_ her.

 

She rolls over, face in the bunched up blanket, and _relieves_ the pressure, strangled moans hopefully not drifting far beyond her gritted teeth.

  
  


\---

  
  


“I heard laughing.”

 

The sun is hot on their backs and there’s no wind for reprieve. Their horses will need water soon.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Laughing. I dreamed last night. _Laughing_ . What the hell does _that_ mean?” Wynonna cranes her head towards Waverly.

 

Waverly makes a face, wondering. “Did you _see_ anything?”

 

Wynonna thinks a minute, and then starts, “Oh! Yeah! Hands! They stole my food! And -” she stops short, turning away, and her own hand drifts to her cheeks, a finger tracing a line before she drops it back down to take hold of the reigns once more.

 

Waverly takes in every gesture. But she only addresses the first revelation.

 

She clicks and her horse trots forward a few steps.

 

“Good. You steal all the food in the first place.”

  
  


\---

  
  


Wynonna kicks the doors of a little saloon, swinging them wide open. Her Colt hangs low on her thigh, and she strides in with the bravado of an army. Waverly is close behind, shotgun slung over her shoulder.

 

Patrons stop and stare. Everyone does. Except the bartender.

 

A thick mustache twitches under his nose as he wipes a glass clean and sets it on the counter. Two pistols are visible on his person, one in an underarm holster on his left side, another pocket pistol, tucked into his grey waistcoat. There’s an old Remington hanging behind the bar. He has more, the sisters know. Gunslingers always do.

 

It smells heavy of alcohol and sweaty customers. Waverly resists the urge to hold a hand under her nose.

 

A man sits at the piano, the deep mahogany stain a mirror to the dark fingers that dance across the ivory keys. Chopin drifts from the little corner. It’s melancholy.

 

 _Fitting_ , Waverly thinks.

 

Wynonna raps her knuckles on the bar, and the bartender looks her way, blue eyes sparkling, lips quirking upward. Her arms lean heavy on the old polished wood, allowing her body to bend forward, closer.

 

He saunters their way, thumbs hooked over his belt.

 

“And what may I do for a pair of fine ladies such as yourselves?” His gaze never leaves Wynonna’s.

 

Waverly rolls her eyes. “Two whiskeys, neat.”

 

“Maybe a little side dish.” Wynonna wags her eyebrows at the mustached man.

  
  


\---

  
  


Wynonna had pulled the bartender, who claimed to be called Doc, upstairs. Waverly sat stewing before she huffed and pulled the flirty waitress, Rosita, upstairs and into a free bedroom.

 

Hot lips meet, and Waverly pushes Rosita back onto the bed, squeaking underneath her.

 

“Whoa there, cowgirl.” She takes hold of Waverly’s hat and sets it atop her own head, pulling her forward by the collar of her shirt while undoing a button.

 

Waverly leans down and captures her lips again, not intent on conversation. Just _distraction_.

 

But every time she closes her eyes she sees it.

 

Sees _her_.

 

_Red._

 

Waverly pulls away and squeezes her eyes tight, like maybe that will make her forget, for just an hour.

 

Rosita sits up; a hand touches Waverly’s cheek.

 

“Okay?”

 

Waverly leans back until she’s sitting on the bed, away from Rosita.

 

“I have - I have someone.”

 

Rosita _ahs_ in understanding.

 

“And you’re looking for them.”

 

Waverly nods, “Her. Looking for _her_.”

 

Rosita leans against the headboard, making room for Waverly, pats the space beside her. Waverly moves next to her.

 

“It must be nice -- to have someone, some _thing_.” When Waverly looks at her in question, she continues, “I don’t know if I do. I’m just - here. Honestly, I don’t think I have anybody.”

 

Waverly grips Rosita’s arm, “Don’t say that.” She picks at the quilt on the bed. “It’s not over yet.”

 

Waverly leans on Rosita’s shoulder, and they fall asleep that way.

 

One, desperately searching for her future; the other, uncertain if she’d ever have one.

  
  


\---

  
  


Wynonna is still, holding on to the reigns of her horse, and stock still. Eyes closed, listening to the wind and her dreams and _something_ that’s been leading them.

 

Waverly doesn’t know anymore.

 

She’d fallen to the ground and cried into Wynonna’s arms, lungs heavy as she confessed she just didn’t _know_ where to go from there.

 

She’d followed _reason_ and _logic_ and everything that just made sense, covering territory, asking locals anything they could.

 

But it wasn’t getting them anywhere.

 

So Wynonna leads, on pure intuition. Maybe intuition is how they’re _supposed_ to do this.

 

She listens for the small laughter from her dreams, and she _follows_ it. She has no idea what that laughter means, but her eyes grow misty when she hears it, and it pulls her heart in a certain direction. She hopes, _towards_ it.

 

So Waverly follows Wynonna, and hopes and prays that her dream of _red_ is there, too.

  
  


\---

  
  


There’s fencing in the distance. The laughter pulses in Wynonna’s ears and heart stronger than ever. And they ride faster and faster towards the fence until they see it.

 

A _home_.

 

A little girl crouches barefoot in the dirt, chickens circled around her. She wears a tunic shirt that’s far too big on her, and _laughs_ as chickens jump up to grab seed from her hand.

 

Waverly looks to Wynonna. She knows it’s not the wind that’s making the tears stream from her eyes.

 

“Is it - ?” She doesn’t need to finish.

 

Wynonna nods. She slides off her horse, walks steadily toward the yard.

 

Soon, she’s right at the gate. A chicken wanders over and the little girl’s eyes follow. She sees Wynonna, and stands, cocking her head a little to the side, just like one of her chickens.

 

Wynonna covers a small sob with her hand. The little one walks toward her.

 

“I know you,” she says, simply, looking up at the travel-worn woman in front of her.

 

Wynonna nods, “I know you, too.” She leans down to meet her beautiful, blue eyes. “ _Alice_.”

 

She smiles. _Yes. Alice_.

 

Alice cups Wynonna’s cheeks with her little hands. “ _Mama_ ,” she whispers softly, and Wynonna stifles another sob, nodding her head.

 

Soft, brown eyes watch the moment unfold from inside the home. She’s seen it before, the re-meeting. Two halves coming back together again. She knows that’s what this is. So she lets them be.

 

She’s watching Wynonna hold Alice tight in her arms before she steps out from the home.

 

Waverly’s gaze shifts, then. The _red_ draws her attention.

 

And she nearly falls out of the saddle.

 

It’s _her_.

  
  


\---

  
  


_Nicole_.

 

That’s her name.

 

 _Nicole_.

 

And Waverly is starting to remember, just a little. She remembers stitching up a big hole in Nicole’s shirt.

 

But Nicole looks at her, and she’s just … lost.

  
  


\---

  
  


Wynonna and Alice have gone to bed. Wynonna hasn’t let go of the little hand, clasped tight in her own. And she sleeps firmly wrapped around the little body, as if to ensure it will never escape her grasp again.

 

Nicole sits at a little table, sipping coffee that’s a bit too strong. Waverly is seated across from her.

 

A silence filled with misplaced guilt and sorrow hangs between them. Both too frightened to step into it, break it.

 

Waverly remembers pouring her coffee in the morning. She inhales the scent, and it should make her _happy,_ but it suffocates her.

 

Her fingers drum on the little mug in her hands. She aches to reach out and run her hands along the firm, but tender, shoulders. But she _can’t,_ and it _hurts_.

 

“I’m sorry,” she hears Nicole whisper.

 

Waverly raises her eyes to meet Nicole’s. Brown eyes that are wandering and running in search of a memory, one that will bring her back to Waverly. They cry out for help; _scream_ for it. But there’s nothing either can do.

 

Some folk never do remember.

  
  


\---

  
  


“Tell me something we used to do.”

 

Nicole sits on the porch step and Waverly leans against the wall, by the door, staring at the back of her head. She’s thinking about running her fingers through the short, wavy hair, swirling them in little locks, maybe tugging gently, depending on what else is happening.

 

It’s been two weeks of this. Nicole asking for little details. Waverly giving as little as possible because she can’t just replace what they had. And because it might hurt them even more.

 

There’s a certain _way_ two halves re-meet. Certain _rules_ . And Waverly can’t press her memories on Nicole, or she might never remember her own self. Waverly _fears_ that with every fiber of her being.

 

Her heart tightens in pain and she takes a deep breath to try and ease it.

 

“We slept in on Saturdays.”

 

Nicole turns, arms across one propped up leg.

 

“Hm. What’d we do?”

 

Waverly ducks her head and bites her bottom lip, regretting sharing that exact memory.

 

Nicole’s brows raise, and Waverly knows she _gets_ it.

 

“ _Oh_. Right.” Waverly notices her swallow hard, a blush creeping up. She fights the urge to lean down and press her lips to that creased forehead. And hates that she just … can’t.

  
  


\---

  
  


One month later, Alice is running around the kitchen, stark naked, Wynonna’s bacon in hand.

 

Wynonna trips after her, slipping to her hands and knees. “That is _my_ food!”

 

Nicole leans against an old countertop, sipping her coffee, watching them. It’s bittersweet. Alice has her mother again. But Nicole looks at Waverly, sitting at the table, chin resting in her hand, smiling at the two, and Nicole can’t help but feel jealous.

 

They have their life back.

 

“Hey,” Wynonna is out of breath, gesturing to Waverly, “maybe a little help?”

 

Waverly chuckles softly. “You stole all the bacon in the first place. I _told_ you.”

  
  


\---

  
  


Alice jumps up on Nicole’s bed.

 

It’s been two months since Wynonna and Waverly showed up. Alice’s love for Nicole is no less. It might be even bigger than it was. Alice can remember, their life before all this, and Nicole still can’t. But Nicole has every single memory of their time together, waiting to be found.

 

“How come you don’t feed the chickens with me no more?”

 

Alice scrunches her face to relay her displeased thoughts on the matter.

 

Nicole stops brushing her her hair and sits next to Alice on the bed.

 

“I guess - I guess I stopped because your mama does it with you now.”

 

“But you _always_ fed ‘em with me. Mama _hates_ those chickens.”

 

Nicole’s eyes narrow on Alice. “You mean, she’s - she’s _always_ hated them?”

 

Alice drops back on a pillow. “Yep!” She’s looking at Nicole with a thought brewing. “Lookit!” She raises both her feet and shoves them in Nicole’s face before Nicole can move away.

 

“Christ, child! These are filthy!” She grabs them both by the ankles and examines them. “When’s the last time you had a bath?!”

 

Alice shrugs her shoulders, replies with a simple “Mm-mm.”

 

“Okay, tomorrow. We’re feeding the chickens, and then you’re _taking a bath_.”

 

Alice grins. Her blue eyes spark mischievously and Nicole sighs, like a breath of relief washing over her, the little girl, a drink of fresh water as she wanders in the desert.

 

Waverly listens to the exchange from the hallway, and she falls deeper in love with the woman who doesn’t know her.

  
  


\---

  
  


Another month goes by, and Nicole is growing more and more distressed by her lack of memory.

 

She is _attracted_ to Waverly, she doesn’t question that for half a second. She’s a fighter, but a lover. She’s small, but mighty. She’s intelligent and beautiful and thoughtful. Nicole can’t think of a single thing about her that _isn’t_ completely enchanting.

 

She watches Waverly, from a distance. Watches a smile take over her face entirely when she laughs at something Alice has done. Watches as she pours all of them coffee in the morning. Watches as she scorns Wynonna for teaching Alice something she certainly shouldn’t know.

 

She’s falling in _love_ with Waverly.

 

But she knows that memories lie dormant somewhere in her soul, and it’s strange to her that she can’t remember such a unique, captivating woman. It breaks her heart and taunts her. Why _can’t_ she remember?

 

So they sit at the table, alone, one night. And Nicole asks, apprehension thick in her voice, if Waverly would sleep beside her, in case it might trigger something -- _anything_ \-- in her mind, even just one moment. She doesn’t think it’ll do any harm, just laying next to each other, no specific memories divulged.

 

Heart in her throat, Waverly agrees. It might kill her, lying beside the woman she loves, the woman who doesn’t _really_ know her, but she agrees.

 

Because Waverly watches Nicole, too. She watches Nicole feed those chickens with Alice. She watches her run a brush over the backs of the horses, humming softly to them. She watches as Wynonna bets Nicole she can’t beat her in a foot race, and as Nicole beats her at least ten yards. But she also watches as Nicole turns back, and pulls Wynonna up by the hand where she has collapsed in the dirt.

 

Because Waverly is falling in love all over again, with _this_ Nicole. This new version that doesn’t even know who she is. And she thinks, maybe, even if Nicole never remembers, they can move _forward_.

  
  


\---

  
  


Nicole’s back is to the door, sitting on the bed, when Waverly enters her room. She sits quietly on the other side of the bed.

 

And then she remembers Nicole _dropping_ her on this very bed, and she shudders, audibly.

 

Nicole spins, a hand drifts to Waverly’s shoulder.

 

“Are you okay? You don’t have to stay, it’s alright.” Her tone is gentle, as always. Always was, always is.

 

Waverly shakes her head quickly, “No no, just a - another memory.”

 

“I hope it wasn’t a _bad_ one.”

 

Waverly can _feel_ Nicole’s lips dancing across her chest and she has to bite her lip.

 

“No, definitely not bad.”

 

She starts to turn a little and notices then that Nicole’s hand is still there, on her shoulder. As she turns, though, it doesn’t move away. It drops lower, down her bicep, rests on her forearm. And Waverly sighs deep at the feeling.

 

“I miss you.”

 

It’s hardly even a whisper. She’s not even sure Nicole heard it. But it just slips out, because she _does_ . _So_ very much.

 

Nicole _did_ hear it, because her eyes flutter closed and her fingers tighten a little around Waverly’s arm.

 

“I hate that I don’t remember you.”

 

Silence settles between them, and they let it, content to look at each other for a moment.

 

“I saw your eyes.”

 

Waverly's head quirks, face questioning.

 

“I had _one_ dream. I saw your eyes.”

 

Waverly shifts more, and now she’s fully facing Nicole, legs crossed on the bed.

 

“I didn’t think - I didn’t know you had any. Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Nicole shrugs.

 

“I can’t remember anything. I guess I didn’t -- see why it mattered?”

 

Waverly takes Nicole’s hand from her arm and holds it, tight.

 

“Of _course_ it does. You _saw_ me. You -- you saw _me_!” Her face is alight and she’s squeezing Nicole’s hand and that feeling alone is mending so many shattered hopes.

 

“But I don’t _remember_ ,” Nicole tells her again, like it’s a wound that just won’t heal.

 

But Waverly takes Nicole’s face in her hands, like she used to.

 

“You still _could_.”

 

Those three words hang in gap between them, like they’re the bridge back to each other. The hope to hold onto that all is not over.

 

So Nicole lifts a shaky hand to cover Waverly’s. She’s not quite sure how to do this, what to do, but she knows she needs to remember. Or at least, she needs to just move, move from this place of inertia.

 

Waverly understands, as if Nicole’s fingers communicated that entire message. Because _she_ needs it, too.

 

She takes Nicole’s hand and holds it in both of hers. She examines it over, running fingers over lines and creases and callouses. Then, as tenderly as a person can, she takes those fingers and presses delicate kisses to each one. It’s an _I love you,_ and an _I’ve missed you,_ and Nicole feels it in her soul.

 

She moves her hand from Waverly’s lips, running it over a strong jawline, up soft skin on her cheek, and tucks long hair behind her ear.

 

And then she looks at Waverly like she’s been struck by something.

 

“Your - I remember your ears,” she says breathlessly.

 

Waverly can’t help but laugh at that. “My _ears_?”

 

“Yeah!” Her fingers trace the outsides of both ears. “They’re the cutest ears I’ve ever seen,” she admits, in wonder.

 

An admiring smile passes Waverly’s lips. Even when she can’t remember her, nobody speaks about Waverly the way Nicole does. It makes her _want_. But she waits. She inhales deep, ready for Nicole to continue.

 

“Keep going,” a quiet request.

 

Their eyes meet and Nicole’s hand drops, just a little. It follows the veins that stand out in Waverly’s neck, traces them, over and over.

 

She looks Waverly in the eyes once more, her fingers hovering, stilled. Waverly nods.

 

Fingers dance across collarbone, soft and silk to the touch. Goosebumps rise, but fingers still dance, and suddenly Nicole _remembers_ pressing _lips_ to this sacred skin.

 

Her eyes flash. Waverly sees.

 

“Did you - ?”

 

Nicole nods. _Remember_.

 

Their free hands clasp tight while the other wanders.

 

Fingers whisper lower, just above the gentle curve of breasts. Waverly’s hands tighten around Nicole’s.

 

Waverly’s eyes are closed, the sensations overwhelming.

 

“Waverly,” Nicole breathes.

 

They open and meet Nicole’s.

 

“Can I -“ She’s not sure how to finish the question. So she lets her fingers do so, as they have been. Her thumb brushes over a bottom lip as it starts to tremble.

 

Waverly nods vigorously, and Nicole’s hand wraps around her neck, even though Waverly is already surging forward.

 

Their lips meet somewhere in the middle, and Waverly _moans_ into Nicole’s mouth. It’s hardly a kiss yet, but she’s been waiting for what seems like ages, and she can’t hold it in.

 

And Nicole feels … _something_ . A strange, _beautiful_ vigor. An energy or current that flows seamlessly between two conduits.

 

It’s _strong_ and _powerful,_ and she knows, immediately, that it’s _Waverly_.

 

She pulls back and looks into Waverly’s eyes, filled with arousal and need and _why did you stop?_

 

Nicole breaths heavily.

 

“ _Waverly_.”

 

She breathes it out like a prayer, like a hallelujah on her lips. Because so many things are flooding back, and all she can do is _marvel_ at this woman sitting in front of her.

  


Waverly’s face asks the question.

  


_Do you remember me?_

  


Nicole nods her head.

  


And they meet again, but this time they _crash_ together. The knowledge of who they were and what they are and just what they mean to each other now in _both_ minds. _Both_ hearts.

 

“Can we…?” Waverly speaks between kisses, breathless and overcome with the want that has been building.

 

Tears well in Nicole’s eyes the longer they kiss, every touch, a reminder.

 

“Yes. _God_ , yes.”

 

It’s just as breathless, just as needy.

 

Because there’s new love. A love that has grown over these past few months. And there is old love. The love they once had, now fresh and vibrant in _both_ . And those loves meet, they collide and it’s _powerful_.

 

“Take this off…?” There’s an urgency in Waverly’s voice as she tugs at Nicole’s nightshirt.

 

Part of Nicole wants to slow down, take their time. The other part reminds her how long they’ve waited, how long _Waverly_ has been waiting for _her_ , and how much time they’ll have to go slow - later.

 

So she strips the shirt off, completely bare now. It takes Waverly by surprise, even though she’d asked. And in a second, Waverly is pulling her own off and crawling into Nicole’s space, her legs over Nicole’s and stretched behind her while Nicole’s tuck behind Waverly.

 

And they pull each other close. They press noses into necks and inhale, hands slide over bare skin, repossessing what has been _taken_ from them.

 

Waverly winds her fingers into the wavy red hair. She tries to vocalize what this feeling is, back, here in Nicole’s arms, but she can’t _quite,_ so she captures Nicole’s lips and tries to convey it in a different way.

 

Nicole understands. She _feels_ it. It’s the current running between them, communicating, _saving_ them.

 

They begin to move, slow at first, recalling the curves and lines and sensitive places. Hips sway, long and steady like the tide, rolling each other into tidal waves that envelop them both.

 

“I need -” Waverly’s forehead presses against Nicole’s, panting, every sensation so staggering and potent it’s difficult to speak. She pulls Nicole down as she lays back on the bed.

 

Because she needs to feel the _weight_ of this. Of Nicole. Of this moment.

 

The memory has been sitting in the back of her mind for too long. Even longer - if she thinks about all the time she hasn’t remembered. She needs it out of her memory, living and present and _real_.

 

“Here - need you here,” she manages to breathe out.

 

Nicole lets more of her weight settle on Waverly, and even _less_ space exists between them. Maybe none at all.

 

“Mhm,” Waverly confirms into Nicole’s neck.

 

Fingers touch and bodies move and they reclaim lost time until the waves crash and they _fall_ , collapsing in a heap.

 

Nicole presses kisses to Waverly’s shoulder, and Waverly can hear her whispering, “I remember. I remember…”

 

Waverly’s fingers wander in Nicole’s hair, spinning and twirling, and she falls asleep with Nicole on top of her, because she’s _never_ letting go again.

  
  


\---

  
  


Lips brush across her forehead as Waverly’s eyes peek open.

 

Soft, pale skin lays bare in front of her.

 

She leans forward and presses her lips to Nicole’s chest, smiling against it. And Nicole whispers above her:

 

“It’s Saturday."

 

 

\---

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love and crave your thoughts. <3


End file.
